


Sunday

by irrationalgame



Series: Days [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 09:20:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1422877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrationalgame/pseuds/irrationalgame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a child Jimmy had always enjoyed the lazy pace and comfortable slowness of a Sunday: waking up to the smell of bacon cooking in the kitchen; putting on his freshly ironed shirt, the cuffs and collar stiff with starch; walking down to church hand-in-hand with his mother. Snippets of various Sundays across a span of his youth were amongst the most warmly-remembered memories he had. Jimmy had never been much for religion even as a child, but had gone to church without argument because it had always seemed so important to his mother – it had made her happy, and thus had made him happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for historical homophobia and religious homophobia.

_Sunday morning, praise the dawning,_   
_It’s just a restless feeling by my side._   
_Early dawning, Sunday morning,_   
_It’s just the wasted years so close behind._   
_Watch out, the world’s behind you,_   
_There’s always someone around you_   
_Who will call it nothing at all._   
_Sunday morning and I’m falling;_   
_I’ve got a feeling I don’t want to know._

_'Sunday Morning' – The Velvet Underground_

As a child Jimmy had always enjoyed the lazy pace and comfortable slowness of a Sunday: waking up to the smell of bacon cooking in the kitchen; putting on his freshly ironed shirt, the cuffs and collar stiff with starch; walking down to church hand-in-hand with his mother. Snippets of various Sundays across a span of his youth were amongst the most warmly-remembered memories he had. Jimmy had never been much for religion even as a child, but had gone to church without argument because it had always seemed so important to his mother – it had made her happy, and thus had made _him_ happy. He used to sit snugly sandwiched between his parents, the soft folds of his mother’s skirt made even softer by the contrasting hardness of the worn, wooden pew, the church bells so loud he could feel them reverberate in his bones and through the empty space of his chest cavity. His mother would smile lovingly and adjust his jacket or tidy his hair, then fold his tiny hand within her own and keep it safely there throughout the sermon.

Even as a young teenager, and later after the war when it was just him and his mother, he still sat beside her in that same pew and held her hand. But then it was Jimmy who would adjust her jacket and tidy her hair and wipe the tears from her face as silent, incoherent prayers tumbled from her desperate, down-turned lips.

Jimmy had stopped going to church when his mother died.

Lady Anstruther had never insisted that any of her staff accompany her to church; she’d always been lackadaisical about her own attendance and had confided that she attended out of social obligation rather than reverence for any deity. Jimmy had replied that he wasn’t sure there was a god - and a god that sent him to war and took his parents and made him a penniless orphan was not a god he wanted to know, at any rate.

When Jimmy had started working at Downton he had been irritated at the expectation that he would attend church with the family; they were his employers, not his moral compass and he didn’t see why it should matter to them what he did. If he wanted to condemn himself to a fiery hell, then that should be his own business. Carson had not seen it that way, however, and so Jimmy had found himself dressing in his Sunday best and trotting down to the damp, grey village church with the rest of the downstairs staff. He’d imagined he’d have found it upsetting to have such a reminder of the happiness he’d lost, but instead was pleasantly surprised by the familiarity of the place – the church was not dissimilar to the one from his childhood. And, of course, he knew it would please his mother that he was going to church again.

And that was something.

So Sunday had become Jimmy’s favourite day of the week, after his half-day. Yes, he still had to work, but he also got to spend a couple of hours sitting in the strangely comforting church and decisively not listening to the sermon.

And that was exactly what he was doing on this particular Sunday.

He fidgeted with his jacket and hair just as his mother would have, earning himself a glare from Daisy – she was squeezed into the pew beside him, a worn prayer book on her lap. It was funny that even in church – in the house of the supposedly ‘impartial’ god – that the class divisions were so apparent; the lords and ladies at the front, the lawyers and doctors behind them and the common folk – the farmers and shop-keepers and servants - crammed in at the back. Sometimes it was standing room only, but only if you were unlucky enough to be low-born, or course. Even amongst the servants there was a divide – Mr Carson, Mrs Hughes, Mrs Patmore and Mr Barrow always sat together and the other staff filed in behind them in a rough order of seniority. Thus Jimmy, as first footman, would usually end up sitting right behind Mr Barrow.

This was distracting for a number of reasons that didn’t really bear thinking about – not in a church of all places.

Jimmy could approximate Mr Barrow’s facial expressions from looking only at the back of his head and shoulders. He considered this to be a rather exceptional feat as Mr Barrow’s poker face was infamous amongst the downstairs staff. Jimmy had studied Mr Barrow’s nuances of expression over the past few years – the ghost of emotion that sometimes fluttered over his face and the subtle shifts in his body language – and the study had been worth it as he could now tell whether he was genuinely happy, entertained, annoyed or troubled. Thomas – or rather Mr Barrow, Jimmy reminded himself – had a certain way of holding his head, tilted slightly upwards, when he was feeling smug or being deliberately defiant. He would bob his head down if embarrassed and his shoulders would hunch ever so minutely if he was upset, even if his face remained completely blank. Mr Barrow smiled often, but Jimmy had learned that those closed-lipped and tight smiles usually meant the exact opposite of the sentiment you would expect – they were sardonic, false, mocking. When he was truly happy he’d give a rare flash of his perfect teeth and his eyes would crinkle in the corners, soft and full of warmth - somehow transformed from their usual icy indifference.

Those smiles were Jimmy’s favourite, and seemed almost exclusively reserved for him. They caused, to Jimmy’s dismay, his stomach to suddenly fill with a hundred very fluttery butterflies and his whole face to turn an alarming shade of crimson. Jimmy had made it a habit not to think about _why_.

_You know why_ , he thought.

As the vicar droned on Jimmy stared studiously at the back of the under-butler’s head – it was titled ever so slightly forwards, revealing a tantalising inch of his pale neck. Bored; Mr Barrow was definitely bored. Jimmy imagined leaning forwards in his seat, his knees pushing against the back of the pew in front, and pressing his lips against the nape of Mr Barrow’s neck. He flushed a deep crimson at the thought – and now it seemed thoroughly indecent for the under-butler to be sitting in church with that little strip of porcelain skin exposed. It was causing Jimmy to think improper – and _ungodly_ – thoughts. Although if Jimmy was honest with himself it was hardly the worst thing he’d ever thought about doing to Mr Barrow.

“And the word of the Lord teaches us that these deviant tendencies are a sin,” the vicar said – Jimmy tuned back in to the rhetoric, the phrase ‘ _deviant tendencies_ ’ catching his attention. “As it teaches us in Leviticus eighteen and verse twenty-two,” the vicar read, his small angular glasses reflecting the gaudy colours of the stained-glass windows, “Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is an _abomination_.”

Mr Barrow’s shoulders hunched in an almost imperceptible sign of his discomfort; Jimmy grimaced – he no more wanted to sit through the hate-mongering speech than Mr Barrow did. Not that he was _that_ sort – he just wasn’t quite himself at the moment. But Thomas – he was Jimmy’s friend, his best and _only_ friend, and it made his chest ache to hear words of hatred aimed at men such as he. He wanted to stand up and yell at the vicar to _shut his ignorant mouth_ because _he didn’t know what he was talkin’ about._

“It is against the laws of God and the laws of man,” the vicar said, working himself up towards what would no doubt be a condemning finale, “and those committing such indecencies will receive their _judgement_ and full recompense for their error! But, repent now and the Lord Jesus will forgive – it’s never too late to give yourself over to the Lord.” The vicar ended his tirade and the organ blasted out the opening bars of _Jerusalem_ in ear-splitting and slightly off-key notes. Jimmy stood, his legs stiff from the uncomfortable bench, and mumbled along – Mr Barrow was silent, his hands thrust firmly into the pockets of his long, grey coat, his eyes downcast. After the obligatory prayer, to which Jimmy defiantly refused to say _amen_ , everyone tumbled out of the church into the late-morning sunshine. Mr Barrow strode ahead of the group, a cigarette already between his lips, and Jimmy jogged a little to catch up with him.

“Mr Barrow,” he called, and the under-butler slowed, allowing Jimmy to fall in step beside him. “Can I have a smoke?”

“I should start charging you,” Mr Barrow replied, but handed him a cig anyway.

“You would never,” Jimmy said with a smirk and lit the cigarette with a match. They walked in a comfortable silence - Jimmy squinted against the sun and took in the beauty of the scenery; it was a lovely day to be out and about. “It’s nice weather,” Jimmy stated, “pity we spent all morning stuck in church and we’ll spend all afternoon inside. Can’t even enjoy it.”

“Mhmm,” Mr Barrow gave a non-committal shrug; his thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

“Do – do you like church, Mr Barrow?” Jimmy asked – it was probably unwise to broach the subject but, well, he wanted to let Mr Barrow know that not everyone agreed with the vicar’s interpretation of God’s apparent hatred of those of the lavender persuasion. No, he wanted Mr Barrow to know that _he_ didn’t agree with it. It physically pained him to think Mr Barrow might reason that Jimmy thought he was in any way disgusting or foul when really, nothing could be further from the truth. It was an unwritten rule between them that they didn’t discuss Thomas’s inclinations, nor the time when he had so unabashedly pursued Jimmy’s affections, but the sudden importance of letting Mr Barrow know how he felt pressed in on Jimmy and necessitated that he crossed the line of propriety.

“No,” Mr Barrow replied curtly, “can’t say I do.”

“I used to like it,” Jimmy said; he knew proffering up a titbit of information about himself would gain Mr Barrow’s full attention. “But only because it made my mother happy. I stopped going after she died.”

“Ah – I’m sorry,” Mr Barrow said, his voice apologetic - as if he was somehow responsible.

“S’ok,” Jimmy shook his head, “I only go now because Carson makes me. I – I don’t agree with all that stuff they keep sayin’.”

“Oh?” Mr Barrow frowned.

“Yeah – y’know, all _fire and brimstone_ an’ that,” Jimmy continued. “I don’t think you – I mean your proclivities – are a sin, whatever that vicar says.”

“Jimmy,” Mr Barrow warned, abandoning his half-smoked cig and crushing it underfoot.

“Look,” Jimmy huffed, pulling on Mr Barrow’s sleeve, “I’m tryin’ to say somethin’ here alright?”

“Well don’t,” Mr Barrow snapped, “it’s not funny.”

“I’m not tryin’ to be funny,” Jimmy said, and melodramatically threw down his cigarette in frustration. “I’m trying to tell ya that I – I don’t care about all that. I know you and you’re not bad, or an abomination or anythin’ like that. Thomas, you’re the best man I know,” he pouted at the sentimentality of his own words, “an’ if god hates you then god is _stupid_.”

Mr Barrow blinked and silently processed the footman’s speech.

“I’m not good at saying what I mean – I hope I haven’t upset you,” Jimmy added, releasing his hold on the under-butler’s sleeve.

“You haven’t” Mr Barrow replied unsteadily. He lit another cigarette, as he was wont to do when he was distressed, and refused to meet Jimmy’s eye.

“Well…good,” Jimmy countered weakly. They walked in a thick silence for a while, the smoke from Thomas’s cigarette drifting around his head in a haze.

“Thank you for sayin’ that,” Mr Barrow said eventually, his cheeks still tinted pink.

“I meant it,” Jimmy replied, crossing his arms, “so don’t forget it, alright?”

Mr Barrow nodded and threw Jimmy one of those genuine smiles; now it was Jimmy’s turn to blush. “I may not like church,” Mr Barrow stated, “but Sundays aren’t so bad.”


End file.
